Wednesdays with Balinese
by Tex-chan
Summary: Sometimes, the hardest thing a person can do is face the darkness that lives inside them. When things go wrong, Yohji has to come face to face with the killer that lives in his soul. Can he survive what he finds?


_**Summary: **Sometimes, the hardest thing a person has to do is face the darkness that lives inside them. When things go wrong, Yohji has to come face-to-face with the killer that lives in his soul. Can he survive what he finds?_

_**Author's Note: **Warnings for violence and some strong language._

_**Legal Stuff:** This story is intended only to express my appreciation, as a fan, for the anime Weiss Kreuz and its characters. It is done for fun, and not at all for profit. If you have any legal rights in the anime Weiss Kreuz or its characters and find the posting of this fanfic offensive or harmful, please contact me through this site, and I will be happy to remove it._

Crap. I hate this job. I really hate it. I know I used to be a PI, but, come on … I am not the kind of guy who likes to stand around for hours in the rain and the cold and the dark, just waiting for something to happen. Nope. Not me. I like my creature comforts. I like them a lot. If I was religious, I would say I was a hedonist, but I never really got religion. What does someone like me need with that shit, anyhow? It's not like I have a soul left to save.

Whatever. It's just another night. One more batch of wasted hours in the sum total of Yohji Kudou's life as a White Hunter of the Night. It sounds romantic, doesn't it, when you put it that way? Please. All of that is just a way of disguising the truth. Because the truth is this: long hours spent hiding in shadows; waiting patiently in the rain, while, not even ten feet away, some stupid slob goes on about his business, warm and dry, with no clue he's about to die; going home night after night coated with blood; wondering if you'll still be human once you wash all that shit off. But, most of all, the truth means time spent with him … Balinese. Time where I have to let him out of his cage. No. The truth isn't romantic. It's scary as hell. Scary, because Balinese likes all that stuff. He likes the waiting and the darkness and the rain and, especially, he likes the killing. He likes it so much it makes my skin crawl, and I wonder how the holy hell he could live inside of me. What kind of freak am I that I carry Balinese around with me all the time? Crap. If people knew … if they had any clue what was sleeping just below the surface of my psyche … they would be scared shitless. Scared of me. Like they should be.

I manage to stifle a small sigh and pull my thoughts away from this dark place they insist on venturing into -- away from the abyss and back into the present. The here and now, where I'm hiding in the shadows next to this stupid, creaking warehouse, feeling the sting of cold, wet metal through the heavy leather of my coat as the rain pelts down on me. Not that it matters all that much. I was already soaked to the bone when we got here, since Aya was in over achiever-assassin mode tonight and couldn't find any place close by that he thought was suitable for hiding the cars. Fucker made us walk two blocks in this damn rain. I know he's thinking about the rest of us -- that he's just doing what he thinks is necessary to make sure we all come out of this alive -- but, still. Sometimes, I want to beat the shit out of him. I don't, of course. I mean, underneath it all, he's a stand-up guy, and, well, I love him. Not any of that kind of sappy, romantic candy-hearts-and-flowers love crap the flower shop fangirls accuse us of. He's my best friend. Like a brother. Maybe, even more. He's saved my life more times than I care to admit. And, besides, I'm not sure I could beat the shit out of him. He doesn't look it, but he's pretty tough. I have this sneaking suspicion he could wipe the floor with me. I don't know if it's true, but the doubt is there, and that's enough for me. No need to find out. Some things are just better left a mystery, right? Still, when he kicks into overprotective mode, it's damn irritating.

Ken and Omi have it worse, tonight, though. Sure, I'm soaked and getting wetter by the second as we wait out here for Omi to break through the building's security systems. But, at least I'm sort of under an overhang, which blocks some of the rain. Ken and Omi are out there --- somewhere nearby, likely on top of one of these roofs. I can't see them. Don't have any clue as to their exact location, but I know they're there. Omi is doing his level best to keep his electronic equipment dry enough to finish his part of this hit, and Ken is watching the kid's back. Which means they're both getting a hell of a lot more soaked than I am. I know it shouldn't, but that thought cheers me up. I figure that makes me a real bastard, but oh well. In this job, you've got to take the little joys and pleasures wherever you can find them.

The gutter above me overflows, spilling a stream of chilled water down my back. I shiver as I feel the small, steady flow against my skin, following the curve of my spine. I stifle a sneeze and wonder just how many times I have been here.

Not "here" here. I think this is my first time at this particular building. But, hey, seen one warehouse … seen 'em all, right? I mean, they're all the same. Interchangeable, really. They're all dark, with piss-poor lighting. Great for sneaking up on people, not so great for weapons accuracy. They're all made out of this stupid, corrugated-tin kind of metal that groans and creaks like a son-of-a-bitch with the slightest breeze. On a night like tonight, with the rain pounding down on that metal roof, it's going to be loud -- so loud you can hardly hear yourself think. I hate that the most. The overwhelming cacophony of noise around these places. It grates on my nerves … makes my teeth itch, and I don't mean in a good way, either. Even if it wasn't raining, though, the building would be damp inside. They all are. They're all crawling with rats, too -- full of these little scuttling-scurrying noises you can hear just under the screaming groan and creak of the building around you. I hate that the worst. I just know one of those little bastards is going to take a bite out of me one day, and I'll catch rabies or some shit like that.

I wonder why the bad guys always hang out in places like this. Shit, it's so cliché, it's pathetic. If they were any good at being bad, they wouldn't be in a place like this. A place like this -- the whole deserted warehouse thing, rats, creaking building, all that shit -- it's right where you'd expect to find someone doing something bad. No, if they were really good at it, they'd be somewhere else. Somewhere nice and warm and dry, with lots of sun. Why the hell can't we ever go after those kinds of bad guys? I wouldn't mind doing a job somewhere nice for a change. Like, a nice house, maybe. Or, a tropical desert island … although it might be hard to sneak up on someone on one of those. Not much cover. Oooh. Or a public bath, even. A nice, warm, steamy bath house. Now that sounds pretty okay at the moment, compared to freezing my ass off out here in the dark, rainy night. It might be a great chance to find some lovely ladies, too. The kind that aren't too shy. It would be sort of like one-stop shopping -- do my night job, get cleaned up, and find a date, all in one place. Not bad. Not bad at all.

A sudden, vivid image slams into my brain -- Aya, in full-blown, die-beast-bastard-and-I-mean-now, Abyssinian mode … brandishing that damn sword of his, and wearing … a towel.

I snicker. I try to suppress it, but I can't. I can't help it. The image is just that damn funny.

It's not a loud noise, my snicker. Hell, considering we're standing out here in the middle of some kind of fucking tsunami or something, not to mention the building's damn creaking, it's hardly a noise at all.

Still, Aya hears it. I hear a faint noise to my left -- the whisper of worn, soft leather, the clink of metal against metal as the buckles on his coat rub across the ridges in the wall behind us -- and he appears out of the shadows. It's almost like he melted right out of the gloom, and it surprises me a little, makes me jump, even though I knew he was there, all along.

He stares at me for a second or two, without saying anything. I know he has this odd expression on his face -- this sort of narrow-eyed, mouth-twisted look he gets sometimes. It's like he knows he should be pissed off, but he's really more worried, and his face can't decide what to do with the conflicting feelings. So, he ends up looking like he ate some bad shellfish or something. Oh, I can't see it right now. It's too dark here, but I know him well enough to picture the tortured expression in my mind. And, when he speaks, I can hear the worry and uncertainty in his voice.

"You trying to get us killed?" Aya asks.

His words seem to float out of the shadows next to me, barely loud enough to carry over the din of the wind, rain, and creaking building at our backs. He seems to regret his initial reaction, and, almost in the same breath, he follows up with a low, whispered, "You okay?"

I nod, although I know he can't see me, and whisper back, "Yeah."

The truth is I'm not okay. Not at all. But, what am I supposed to tell him? That I don't like standing out here in the rain … that I have a bad feeling about this whole deal, like we're both balancing on a slippery pile of shit, and one false move will send us tumbling right down into hell … that I don't want to be here because it's Wednesday? That's the real reason for my restless, wandering mind and my increased level of unhappiness tonight. Because it's Wednesday. I hate taking missions on Wednesdays. They all know that. Bad shit happens on Wednesdays. Asuka died on a Wednesday.

I have turned away from Aya, back toward the building we're watching across the small patch of concrete parking lot between it and our hiding place. But, I can feel him watching me. I can feel him wondering if he should say anything else.

Fuck. I really want a cigarette.

"You could have turned the mission down, Yohji," Aya says, his voice still so low that the words almost don't reach me.

I think about that for a second or two. He's right. I could've turned it down. Kritiker doesn't like it if we do that, but, at the same time, they won't do anything about it -- as long as we don't do it all that often. So, yeah. I could've turned it down. I could've stayed home in my nice, warm bed, doing my best to smoke and drink away the fact that it was Wednesday, trying to pretend I don't hate Wednesdays, that there's nothing special about this day. But, that would've meant Aya heading into that warehouse alone.

Omi had to break the locks, and Ken had to guard Omi's back. When you have four people on your team, and one doesn't show up for work, that leaves one man without backup. Tonight, it would have been Aya. He didn't tell me that, of course. That's not his way. But, I knew. I had seen the mission plans. I had seen the building blueprints. I had seen the alarm schematics. There was no way Aya would leave Omi out there unprotected. Not that he thought Omi couldn't take care of himself. We all know better than that. Sure, we tease him and call him "kiddo" and shit like that, but Omi is good at what he does. I trust him with my life, and there aren't many people I can say that about. Actually, there are only three. So, yeah, Omi can take care of himself, no problem. And, Aya knows that, better than anyone. But, I know Aya, and I know we're important to him. He's piss-poor at showing it, but he cares about all of us -- a hell of a lot more than he cares about himself. So, if there was a question of someone's back being left open, it wouldn't be Omi's. The likelihood that Ken, as Omi's back-up, would see any action tonight was slim to none, leaning toward "none". But, Aya would never see it that way. He would wade into a room full of armed guards alone before taking the chance of anything happening to someone else on the team.

It seems Aya senses my thoughts, because he says, "There are only going to be three guards."

His tone is reproachful, and, maybe, even a little hurt -- like he thinks I doubt his ability to take out three guys on his own. I don't. Three guys, no matter how heavily armed -- for Aya, that's nothing. A Sunday stroll in the park.

Still, it's Wednesday. Bad things happen on Wednesdays. I know our surveillance indicated only three guards. But, all the same, I can't shake this feeling of impending doom. And, I couldn't face the thought of Aya going in there alone, with no back-up. Call it superstition or whatever, but in our business, there's no rewind. There's no "do-over". If you fuck up, it's game over, and that's it. You don't get extra lives here. I couldn't take that chance. Not because I think Aya can't handle it, but because he's as important to me as we are to him. I want to explain all of this to him, but I know I can't. Now isn't the time or the place, for one thing. But, mostly, I can't find the words to fit around what I feel. So, I just shrug. I know he can't see me, but he can hear the sound of my coat moving against the metal wall behind us.

"It's Wednesday," I say.

I know it's not enough of an explanation, but, right now, it's all I have. It must be enough to satisfy him, though, because I hear the whisper of worn leather that tells me he has retreated back into his previous position.

"Just don't fuck up and die," he says.

I smile at that. I can't help it. It's such an "Aya" thing for him to say. He's like that. When he's worried, this is how he shows it --- by being more pissy than usual.

I have a perfect, smart-ass comeback all prepared, but I don't get to use it. The comm. in my ear squeals to life, and I hear Omi's whispered, "Okay. We're go. Remember the blueprints --- target's office is down the first short hallway, second door on the right. There should be three armed guards present."

This is it, then. Past the point of no return. I try to choke down my uncertainties as I follow Aya across the small patch of broken concrete, up to our target's door. Luckily, it's dark enough out here that we don't have to make much effort to hide our presence. As Aya's hand comes to rest on the doorknob, he glances back at me. He already has his game face on, and I can't help but feel a little shiver of fear course down my spine when I realize I'm staring into Abyssinian's cold, dead eyes. And, yet, there's still a little bit of my friend in there, too. I can see it, just for a moment. A tiny spark of concern, which flits across Abyssinian's eyes and disappears. It comes and goes so quickly that I could almost believe it was a trick of the poor lighting. But, I know better. I nod to let him know I'm okay, and that I've got his back. He nods back and wrenches open the door.

* * *

"Siberian, Bombay, I … think we're going to need a little back up in here," Aya's voice mutters through the comm. in my ear.

A little back up. No fucking shit. I stare around me, at the legions of armed guards standing between us and our target's office. How the fuck can Aya be so calm right now? My heart is pounding so hard, I swear the damn thing's going to jump right out of my chest, and it even drowns out the hammering of the rain against the building's metal roof.

"All right," Omi's voice sounds out, right in my ear.

It's almost like the kid is sitting inside my mind, and it never fails to make my back teeth itch. This time isn't any different. I hate using these stupid communicators.

"Lookit," Omi continues, "We're almost done here. We still have to get over to your location. Can you hold them off for, say, three minutes?"

I have to fight down this sudden urge to strangle Omi. Three minutes. He says it like it's nothing, like he's haggling for a lower price in a bookstore or something, but the only things he's bargaining for tonight are our lives. Oh, I know he doesn't mean it that way. If anyone takes shit way too seriously … well, besides Aya … it's Omi. Still, the way it sounds, it grates on my nerves. Probably because my favorite chibi hacker is out there, in the safe, rainy, deserted dark, and I'm in here … with way too much company for comfort.

Aya sighs. "Fine," he replies.

I watch him and wonder how the hell he can seem so calm. I have no idea how many guards are crowded into the narrow hallway. I kind of lost count at around fifteen, but I know there are a lot more than that. Like, hundreds. Okay, so, probably not hundreds, or legions, or any of the other numerical descriptors that spring to mind. But, there are a lot. Twenty … maybe twenty five … could be as many as thirty, and, they're still coming. I can see shadowy figures farther off down the hall, spilling out of doorways, and the steady thud-thud of running boot soles striking the concrete flooring makes me want to scream. So, whatever the final number -- twenty, twenty-five, thirty … we're talking a lot of armed and hostile people between us and our intended goal for the evening, and a hell of a lot of guys for just two of us to handle.

And yet, Aya acts like it's nothing more than a mild inconvenience. I can hardly hear myself think over the panic-induced sound of blood roaring through my ears, and I swear, if my breathing was any louder, everyone within a two-foot radius of me would go deaf from the noise. But, not Aya. He just stands there, glaring at the men surrounding us, as if that, alone, would be enough to make them back off. I can see a few of the guys, right in front -- the ones standing closest to the business end of Aya's sword -- swallow hard. Their Adam's apples move up and down with the gesture, and I know, as unlikely as it might seem, they're wishing they were anywhere else at the moment. Why would they think that? They have us so grossly outnumbered it's almost funny, and, yet … they're scared shitless of Aya. No, scratch that. They're scared of Abyssinian. Hell, I would be, too. I'm glad he's on my side, and, for just a moment, I feel a little bit sorry for these guys surrounding us. After all, even if they take us out, most of them are going to die tonight, too. It's a fleeting emotion, there and gone within nano-seconds. In this game, there's no place for mercy. Not if you want to stay alive.

I can't help but wonder what they see when they look at me. Oh, sure, I'm scared right now. My heart's doing a run-away dance in my chest, and my breath is coming out in short, sharp, panic-tinged huffs. Don't get me wrong. I'm no coward, but this isn't the kind of situation you want to find yourself in -- especially not when you only expected three guards. I can't help but wonder if the men surrounding us can tell I'm afraid. I know Aya -- probably better than anyone else in the world -- and I know, underneath it all, at this moment, he's feeling the same almost mind-numbing panic as me. He hides it well. And, really, I guess I do, too. I glare at the guys closest to me, and they back off a step or two. I know it's pretty damn stupid, but, somehow, that makes me feel a lot better.

And, then, Aya does something that makes my blood run cold. He glances over at me and gives me this long, searching look. I have no idea what he's thinking. It's one of those expressions I can't read -- like he's stuck somewhere between murderous rage and guilt over dragging me into this whole thing. It seems like he stares at me for a long time. I know it can't be more than a second or two, but time is funny that way. Sometimes, it seems like the whole universe grinds to a halt, so that you're the only living, breathing thing in it. Everything else fades into the background, and, for those two eternal seconds, I forget to breathe. He sighs and shakes his head in a small, nervous sort of gesture as he reaches up and removes the comm. from his ear. He doesn't say anything, and he never looks away. I can't look away, either. It's as if I'm trapped. Held prisoner by that unfathomable expression in his eyes … my heart beating in time with his … my breathing synchronizing with his … my whole being, seemingly, coming into this strange sort of union with him. He drops his comm. to the floor and grinds it to pieces under the heavy sole of his boot.

And, in that instant, I know. I understand the strange expression. He thinks we're not going to walk away from this. Oh, sure, he's going to go down fighting. He's acting confident and cocky and sure of himself. But, in his heart -- in the place where Ran still lives -- there's enough doubt that he can't buy into his own act. Not this time. There's no other reason for him to destroy the comm. like that. It's normal procedure. If you're in a situation you can't get out of, break all ties … make it impossible for the enemy to track you back to the rest of your team and Kritiker.

I nod my understanding -- the motion of my head is so slight, I'm sure the armed guards pressing in on us from all sides can't see it. But, he does. I see it in his eyes. I repeat his actions with my own comm., taking the small piece out of my ear and grinding it to dust beneath my boot. I'm surprised when the plastic doesn't make any sound as it cracks into oblivion. You'd think it would, considering I'm severing my last tie to the earthly world in preparation for my own death.

Somehow, watching Aya do this … watching him admit he's facing something he doesn't think he can beat … scares me a hell of a lot more than the ring of murderous, hate-filled faces closing in on me. I can feel cold sweat trickle down my spine, and the uncomfortable sensation makes me shiver -- like someone walked over my grave.

Walked over my grave? Well, crap, mind. Thanks so much for that. I really did not need to go there. Not now, when I've got a shit-load of ugly, angry mother fuckers breathing down my neck, looking to cash me out, with extreme prejudice and bruising. Why do I have to think of this now?

"Because you're a fucking pansy," my mind whispers back at me.

No. Not my mind. I know this voice … this silky, almost-sneering, condescending tone … the barely-concealed malice lurking behind the words. Balinese.

I feel his presence inside me, inside my mind. Malicious -- like he's made from the deepest, darkest, most foul parts of my soul. This entity never fails to frighten me. It sounds crazy, doesn't it? He's part of me. And, yet … so very different. Balinese is dangerous. He's full of hate. But I sense he is excited, too. Excited, because he knows I'll have to let him out soon. I won't have a choice. If I want to stay alive, I need him. And, somehow, it seems like that thought pleases him the most, at the same time it makes my own soul quake. Each time he slips his bonds, I fear it'll be the last time. He'll take control, and I won't be able to stuff him back into his cage when the killing is done.

"I'm not," I snarl back at him. "I'm not a pansy. Anyone would be scared, in this situation. Didn't you see how many fucking guys are out there?"

"Whatever," Balinese answers.

His response is flippant, almost casual, but the word burns across my mind like a low, guttural growl. It makes me shiver to feel the pure, unadulterated blood lust emanating from this dark presence that lurks at the bottom of my soul. I picture him, just like always, this shapeless, formless blackness, pacing back and forth … back and forth. Every so often, he throws himself against my psyche, as if testing the strength of the cage where I hold him prisoner. Now, I can feel every fiber of his being vibrating with anticipation. Balinese is like that. He loves this part. He loves the killing. Loves it more than anything. And, that terrifies me.

In every fight, there's this moment of perfect grace, when time seems to stand still, and you and your enemy face off, frozen and sizing each other up. No one moves. No one breathes. There is no sound. There is no fear. There is nothing, except the most pure, most beautiful stillness you've ever experienced. I would compare it to being inside the eye of a hurricane, when the storm's fury abates, leaving a complete vacuum in its wake, but this is even more peaceful than that. It's a moment that seems to live forever, when seconds drag out and shatter into oblivion … little ticks of time that stretch into eternity.

This is one of those times. All of this -- my conflicted, tortured feelings, my little heart-to-heart chat with Balinese, my realization of Aya's true feelings about this fight -- occurs in the seconds it takes for him, and then, me, to destroy our communicators. As I lift my boot off the pile of plastic debris that signified my last lifeline, my last hope at salvation, it's as if I break some sort of spell that held all of us entranced. I see something -- some emotion I can't identify -- flicker through Aya's eyes. Before I know it, I am back-to-back with him, feeling the beat of his heart through his body against my back, feeling the pant of his breathing reverberating through me, knowing that he is just as scared as I am, watching as the ring of hostile faces closes in on us.

"Just stay alive, Kudou," Aya mutters. I can barely hear his voice above the yelling of the men rushing in to attack us, but, even so, I manage to catch his final words, "Three minutes. If we survive, I'll buy you a drink when this is done."

"Deal," I whisper.

I feel him lean against me. He presses his back into mine for just a fraction of a second -- one final nod to the friendship and connection we share, one final good-bye, in case we don't make it out of here. In the next instant, he launches himself into the midst of the men nearest him, a throaty scream of rage marking his passage. Already, the stench of blood is almost overwhelming. The angry shouts of men springing into combat mix with the dying moans of those Aya's sword cuts down. He doesn't move very much. He doesn't need to. They're more than happy to come to him. Like moths to a flame, to be cut down on the edge of his blade. In the second it takes me to catch that glimpse of Aya, I feel the rage boiling up within me. He is already spattered with blood and hemmed in by enemies on all sides. Something about him -- the snarl on his face, the wild, almost-crazed expression in his eyes, the way he holds the guards at bay behind a no-man's land defined by the length of his steel -- makes me think of a wolf, cornered and forced to fight, refusing to give in, even as the huntsman's pack closes in to tear him to shreds. I feel a surge of protectiveness toward this friend who means so much to me. I know I should worry about my own situation at the moment. We are both in this mess together, after all. But I don't care about myself. I no longer care if I die here. I swear, though, that Aya won't. No matter what happens to me. No matter what happens in the next three minutes, my friend has to make it out alive. Aya can't die here. He's too good for that.

With that thought, I reach inside myself and unlatch Balinese's cage. I feel his unique mix of emotions -- rage, excitement, hatred, joy -- surge within me, and a red haze descends over my vision. Yohji Kudou has left the building.

* * *

There is this strange sort of beauty to be found in the midst of fighting for your life. It is simple. It is easy. Kill them or they kill me. And, it is this symmetry, this simplicity, which feeds my joy and fuels my excitement over the hunt. It is savage, but, yet, poetic. And, isn't all beauty savage, in its own way?

Yohji doesn't understand that. Or, maybe he does, somewhere deep down inside. After all, that's where I live. But, he doesn't want to understand it, so he fears me. He sees me as an animal to cage and loathe. I'm not the raging, maniac killer he thinks I am. I'm not the berserker he fears unleashing on the world. I'm just … simple. And, I like symmetry. Two people fight. One walks away, and one dies. There's balance there, and balance is good.

Yohji is not simple. Anything but. He's layer upon layer of complicated, painful angst; bad memories buried so deeply you'd think he'd forgotten them, except they're too painful to ever let him go; fear and dread over the things he has seen, the things he has done, the things I've done, and the things he fears we will do together in the future; and pain. The most heart-wrenching pain you could ever experience. I can't even get near it without feeling overwhelmed. I would cry for him, if I could. But, my tears, if they ever existed, dried up a long time ago. So, I do the best I can for him … the best I can do to keep him sane. I lie, dormant and still, within him, but, every so often, when he starts going off the deep end, I rattle the walls of his psyche. He thinks I do it to torture him, because I'm cruel and hard and like to play with him. Hell, maybe that's part of the reason. But, really, I do it because I care about him. Whether he wants to admit it or not, I am him. And, he is me.

He is right about one thing. I might not be the uncontrollable, berserker killer he fears, but I do love this job. I love the hunt. I love the fight. And, yes, even the killing. Maybe I am that scary beast, after all. Not for Yohji. He refuses to see it, but I pose no threat to him. I need him. The rest of the world, though … might be another story.

The guards close in around me, time and time again. My wire slays the ones nearest me, and the rest of them fall back, only to, somehow, mentally regroup and come at me again, like the ebb and flow of the ocean's tide. The sounds of the battle are almost deafening. I hear the guards' labored breathing as they struggle to close the distance between us, so they can injure me and gain an advantage. I hear the clash of metal against metal as one man after another fights to parry my wire with whatever weapons they carry -- knives, nunchucks, sais, staffs … I think I even saw one guy heading toward me with a crowbar. A few have guns, and I target them first, disarming and killing them before they can aim at me or Abyssinian. I hear the angry, rage-filled shouts of men fighting for their lives, men who hadn't realized, when they kissed their loved ones good-bye earlier this evening, that it would be one of their last acts on this earth. They realize it now, as they watch their comrades fall to the left and right, in front, and behind. I can almost hear their minds working as one, fighting to overcome the disbelief of a single thought "But they are only two men. Why are we dying here? Why?"

Desperation rides through the air, passing among the guards' ranks, sucking some of the life, some of the will, some of the fight, out of them. I can smell and taste it all around me, as heavy in the air as the smell of sweat and fear, and the greasy, iron-tasting tang of fresh blood.

I only catch glimpses of the men who attack me -- the shadow of a weapon over here, the dying eyes of a man over there. Faces and weapons and bodies all merge together into some strange, macabre collage, all colored over in jewel tones of glistening red. I can't stop long enough to take more notice. There are too many enemies, and, if I paused for even a second, I would become their prey. I can't let that happen. Instead, I strike almost haphazardly with my wire, aiming by instinct, sound, and the quick, furtive glimpses I catch of the men approaching me. Spot risk, assess risk, eliminate risk. It is simple, as easy as breathing -- a thought process that is second nature to me. I do not think. I don't have time to think. I just strike and kill and move on to the next man in line … and the next … and the next … and the next. I will not stop. Not until every threat is eliminated. Not until everyone is dead and I'm the only one left standing. This is how it works in my world.

Everything -- all of the sights, all of the sounds, all of the smells -- combine in a swirling, rushing cacophany that wraps around the roar of the blood pumping through my ears, the hammering pound of my own heartbeat, until it's almost too much. Too many sensations. I think I will lose my mind before this night ends, and I have to fight against the urge to cover my ears and scream for everything to stop. Because I can't. I can't pause long enough to cry for mercy. I can't pause long enough to have mercy. There are too many men pressing in on me, and I must stay alive. No matter what.

Fools, all of them. No matter how many I kill, they just keep coming. Whatever. I don't care how many come against me. I will destroy them all, because that is what I do. That is my purpose. That is how I keep Yohji safe, and how I maintain the balance and simplicity that make my soul sing. Spot risk. Assess risk. Eliminate risk. Over, and over, and over.

How long has it been? Hours? Days? Years? I know it can't be more than one or two minutes since the fight started, but it seems like much longer. Time is funny that way. When you want it to slow down, it moves at super light speed. But, when you need for it to run out on you, it lingers around, like a dinner guest who refuses to leave once dessert is done.

My arms, shoulders, and back ache. Sweat runs down my face, stinging my eyes and threatening to blind me, but I can't pause long enough to wipe it away. I have to live with the stinging pain. I can feel the trickle of perspiration following the line of my spine to pool in the small of my back. I wish I had pulled my hair back before this whole mess started. It really cuts down on my visibility, but I can't do anything about that now. Ditto on the shades. Somehow, they stay on my face, despite all the activity and sweat. I know they are one of the ways in which Yohji shields himself from the world, but they don't help visibility all that much.

My breath comes in short, harsh gasps. My heart bangs against my ribcage so hard it's almost painful. I'm not winded. I haven't reached my limit. Not yet, but I am tired. Tomorrow, if I live that long, I'll be sore -- probably too sore to get out of bed. I can't think about that now. For now, there is only action -- dodge a thrust, block a punch, disarm enemy after enemy, put them down, one man after another, so that they can never get up again. The movements of this deadly ballet are second nature to me, ground into my body and mind through long hours of practice and application. Dodge. Thrust. Punch. Kick. Spot risk. Assess risk. Eliminate risk.

Again and again, my wire flies around me, splitting the air with a metallic zing that's almost like a song. Twang. Twang. Twang. Each time, it hits home, parting flesh and bone as easily as it cut the air seconds before. There is blood everywhere. On the floor, the walls, even the ceiling. I slip in a puddle of it and come close to falling, but I catch my balance just in time to dodge a blow from a club. If it had connected, it would have caved in my skull, for sure. I finish that guy off, and move on to the next man.

I am covered in blood, but I don't think any of it is mine. With the adrenaline high I have going now, I wouldn't realize it, even if I was bleeding to death. I wouldn't know it until I dropped to the floor, uttering my last breath. So, I don't think about it. I don't wonder if any of the sticky red on my clothing is mine. I just keep moving forward, through the mass of men that continue spilling into the room, my wire cutting a path around me, keeping my enemies at a safe distance, for now.

This is one of my favorite things about my weapon -- the no man's land it creates around me. But, it can't last. With each kill, the wire comes away bloodied, with bits of flesh and gore sticking to it. Kill enough people, and the wire loses its edge. When that happens, I have no choice but to sever the ruined length and start with a fresh strand. In a fight like this one, the odds work against me. No matter how quickly I kill, I will run out of wire. It's simple mathematics -- a factor of too many men arrayed against me. When the odds are like this, I can't take the time to stop and clean my wire. I can only protect what I care about -- myself, Yohji, and Abyssinian -- and kill.

The time comes when my wire fails me. I knew it was inevitable, but that does nothing to lessen the shock of separating one length and reaching for another, only to find … nothing. The remaining guards have been circling just outside my reach, ducking beneath the wire here and there, to strike at me, or to try and lure me out of my zone of defense. They have been smart. They have been cautious. Up until now.

There is a pause, as they watch while I try to release a new length of wire and fail. They stare at me for a few seconds, and I can read the disbelief in the eyes of the men nearest me. They can't believe their good fortune. Finally, they will be able to dispose of this nuisance in their midst. The disbelief passes, replaced by a smug self-confidence. They think they've won this fight now. I can see it in their eyes, in the swaggering way the foremost among them moves forward.

They are wrong. They have underestimated me, and that will be their death. I don't let them come to me. Instead, I lunge forward, grabbing the nearest man and pulling him off balance. I hug him to me and break his neck with a brutal twist. The tearing crack of bones and ligaments is loud enough that it carries even over the other sounds of the fight. It is sickening and definite, as is the boneless way in which the man's body sags against me. Even I feel my stomach twist in distaste. I do not like killing in this way. It is messy … complicated, and hard. But, I can do it, if I must. And, tonight, I must.

I use the dead man's body as a shield, blocking a knife thrust from another guard. I grab his wrist and wrench the knife from him, lunging forward as I shove the dead man's body at him. I slash his throat with one savage strike. His blood spurts out all over me, into my hair, my eyes, and my mouth. I want to puke from the taste of it, but I can't. I have to keep going. I am armed now, and I move out among the remaining guards, slashing and striking with the knife, kicking, punching, grabbing for hair or eyes … anything to give me an advantage over them, anything to keep Yohji alive.

The footing becomes more treacherous. Blood stands on the floor in puddles and garish, gory smears. Bodies have fallen all around me, forcing me to sidestep so I don't trip over them. And, still, it continues: duck, twist away from hands grabbing at me, slash with my knife, stab, kick, punch, head butt. As I twist my way amongst my dwindling assailants, I spare a quick glance to look around the room. There are a lot fewer guards than there were when this whole mess started, and it looks like they are no longer pouring into the room to join the fray. Still, there are too many men pressing in around me. I can't see Abyssinian, and my heart lurches in fear at the realization I have been separated from him. For an instant, I fear he has fallen, and I have to fight down the urge to go look for him. Then, I hear the sounds of combat from a nearby room -- our target's office -- and I know he has slipped away to complete our mission, taking some of the guards with him. From the muffled sounds of metal ringing off of metal and Abyssinian's shouting, I can tell he is carrying the day. I still fear for him, but I'm able to get back to the task at hand -- worrying about my safety. Mine, and Yohji's.

Crap. Hasn't it been three minutes already? How the hell long can it possibly take Siberian and Bombay to get here? I've never realized how long three minutes is. Shit. That's the kind of whiney-assed crap Yohji would say. Maybe even I can get tired of the killing. Or, maybe I'm just tired.

That's it. I'm tired. I don't know how much longer I can keep this up. Duck. Parry. Strike. Slash. Kick. Duck again. Spin. Sidestep an attack. Spot risk. Assess risk. Eliminate risk. The actions are automatic, but my body is starting to fail me. I stagger as I sidestep an attack. I slip again in the blood on the floor and have to struggle to maintain my balance. I trip over a stray body part that has fallen in my path. My breathing is labored now. My back, arms, and shoulders scream for mercy, and I think my heart is going to jump right out of my chest, it's beating so hard. Everything hurts, even though I don't think any of my enemies has scored a hit against me. I'm ready for this to be over. I have to end it while I can still stay on my feet. Otherwise, I am dead. And, worse than that, Yohji is dead. Abyssinian is dead.

I redouble my efforts and attack faster. Duck. Parry. Strike. Slash. Kick. Sidestep. Everything blurs out. There are no faces, no identities for these men I fight. Everything was already colored in shades of red. It is always like that when I fight, when I kill. But, now, it deepens around the edges until there is nothing else. Nothing but red. Nothing but killing. Spot risk. Assess risk. Eliminate risk. Again and again and again. Until I believe there will never be anything else. Three minutes will never end, and I will be in this killing cycle forever. The thought of that makes me happy. I feel the adrenaline surge within me once again, and I believe that, maybe, I can keep on doing this for forever.

I step away from a guard, pulling my knife from his heart and dropping his dying body at my feet. It falls with a sick, sucking thud, and I notice the silence. The sounds of fighting -- men yelling, the clash of weapon against weapon, the groans and cries of the dying -- have ceased, leaving a vaccuum so perfect, it's as if sound never existed. The lack of noise is deafening in its completeness. It seems absurd, but the quiet is so loud it makes me want to scream.

I look around me and realize I'm alone, standing in the middle of a room full of bodies. If Yohji was here, I know he would freak out, but good. This is one of his worst nightmares, come to life. And, yet, I can't help but feel a bit proud of my handiwork. What can I say? I'm not a berserker, but I am a killer. And, I'm good at this job.

Just as I feel the adrenaline begin to seep out of my body, allowing my breathing and heart rate to slow, a sound draws my attention toward the adjoining room. Everything fades back to tones of red as an armed man steps out onto my killing floor. I thought I was done, but it seems there is one enemy left. One last man standing between me and Yohji's safety. I know I am smiling as I cross the floor to meet him. I shouldn't be, but I am glad it's not over yet. Spot risk. Assess risk. Eliminate risk.

He seems surprised at my attack. Perhaps he assumed I was already dead, considering how outnumbered I was. Well, assumption is the root of all evil, isn't it? I guess that's one little life lesson this guy will take to his grave. And, it'll be my pleasure to teach it to him.

He doesn't defend against my attack until it's almost too late. Just when I think I have him at my first pass, he brings his sword up and bats the blade of my knife aside with a motion that is so practiced, it's almost casual. Instantly, he matches me, step for step, turn for turn, turning aside every slash and thrust of my knife, mirroring my every movement as we engage in this deadly dance that I love so much. This guy is good, and I smile to myself. He will be a challenge. This should be fun, especially since the shorter length of my blade puts me at a serious disadvantage in this fight. No matter. He's not the first swordsman I've faced tonight. I put all of them down. I'll do the same thing here, too. I have to.

Despite his skill, he is soft. My exhaustion leads me to be sloppy. I slip in the blood and come close to falling. I twist to the right when I should move left. A dozen times or more, I unintentionally leave him an advantage, an opening that should herald my death. But, each time, he doesn't press it. He doesn't attack. He only defends.

Is he fucking mocking me? Does he think I'm that fucking easy … that he can walk away from this alive if he just defends? Like I'm just going to get tired and give up or something?

I feel the anger and rage surge within me, spurring yet another adrenaline rush. I know my body has reached its limit, and beyond. But, I can tell his has, too. His movements are slowing. Each defending slash is slower than the one before it. With each step he makes in our little dance, he staggers, until, finally, he missteps. He slips on a smear of blood, and his ankle twists under him. Not much … not enough even to cause a bad sprain. But, it is enough to throw him off balance. In an instant, the tables turn, and I spot my chance. Unlike him, I don't hesitate to take it.

I slip beneath his defense, dodging a clumsy blow of his sword by letting the flat of the blade roll off my left shoulder. I surge forward, my left hand shooting out to grab him by the throat. I continue forward a few feet, carrying him with me until he slams into a nearby wall. The impact seems to knock the breath from him. It rushes out on a long, pained sigh, and he sags against the vice-like grip of my left hand. I bring my knife up, cat-quick, eager to solidify my advantage over this enemy, and spear his right shoulder with one vicious thrust. I feel the blade slide through his flesh, separating muscle, grinding against bone. He groans in pain and his sword clatters to the floor with a metallic clank that seems obscenely loud in the room's screaming silence.

I have all the power now. I could end his life in an instant. One thrust or slice of my knife is all it would take. And, yet, I do not. Of all the enemies I have faced tonight, this man alone was my equal. If he had been a little fresher, or I had been a little more tired, things would have gone differently. And, for that, I want to watch as he dies. I want it to be slow, and I want to look into his eyes as the life leaves his body. Maybe it's respect. I don't know. But, somehow, I feel I owe him this much.

I leave the knife embedded in his shoulder and tighten my grip around his neck, intending to strangle him. I look into his eyes and feel a small surge of shock. There is something so familiar about the expression in them -- sadness, resignation, understanding, and a world of hurt. I shake off the uncomfortable feeling and tighten my grip even more, squeezing off his supply of air. He chokes and struggles to breathe, but he doesn't fight me. He just looks at me with those oddly familiar eyes that seem to stare right through me, right into my very soul.

I am dimly aware of someone yelling. I think they are screaming Yohji's name. The voices sound familiar, but I can barely hear them over the rush and pound of the blood through my head, the screaming, murderous rage pouring through every fiber of my being. The voices are too far away. It's like listening to people yell at you when you're under water, and I decide they must not be important. All that matters is this instant … this moment in time, when I will make my victory complete.

"Are you really going to do it?" he asks.

His voice is harsh, hardly a whisper. As much as he is struggling to breathe right now, I'm shocked he can talk at all.

I glare at him and tighten my grip just a little more. He's not talking his way out of this.

"Are you really going to do it?" he repeats. "Are you really gonna kill me … Yohji?"

In that instant, the fuzzy red that has obscured my vision fades away, and everything snaps into sharp focus, with a sick-edged clarity that makes me want to puke. I find myself staring into Aybssinian's eyes. No. Not Abyssinian. Aya. Aya's eyes, filled with pain. Aya's eyes, clouding over as the life slowly ebbs from his body. Aya's eyes, filled with fear. Fear for me, even as I choke the life from him.

No. Not fear for me. Fear for Yohji.

Oh, holy crap. What the fuck have I done?

Somewhere, deep inside me, I hear Yohji scream those words, too, in tandem with my mental shout of anguish. I feel his presence -- conflicted, tortured, filled with grief -- surge up within me. He shoves me back into my cage, and everything fades out around me. Everything except the memory of that tortured, pained look in Aya's eyes and the feeling of watching him die in front of me.

Yohji has taken control once again.

* * *

The door opens before me, swinging in on silent pneumatic hinges, and the canned, climate-controlled breeze from inside rushes over me, carrying the disinfected, antiseptic smells of the hospital along on the almost stale air. I have to fight down the urge to recoil from it. It's just air, but, all the same, the sensation is not pleasant. It's like being smacked in the face. Funny how this combination of scents, peculiar to hospitals, always makes me think of pain, fear, and death. I guess I've spent too much time in these places to feel otherwise.

I shiver as I enter the building. I'd like to blame it on the AC-chilled air. I showered before coming here -- more a factor of having to wash the blood off of myself to avoid attracting attention, than anything else -- and my hair is still wet. If it was the wet hair thing, that would mean everything was normal. Aya would be back at the Koneko, reading or grumping around, pretending he's a lot meaner than he really is. I wouldn't be here, facing up to the unspeakable horror I almost committed. I wouldn't be checking on my friend -- the one I tried to kill a few hours ago. I'd like to believe it was just the AC, but it's not that cold in here. Hell, I'm cold from the inside out, and I think I'll be that way for a good, long time. Not that I'm complaining. I figure it's the least I deserve.

I pause in the entryway, unsure whether I should continue in or not. I fight back wave after wave of panic and nausea, struggling to battle down the urge to turn around and leave. As I stand there, frozen in place and battling with myself, people come in the door behind me. They shove past me, brushing me out of the way with a quick bump of their shoulders, eager to reach their destinations. I stare at the expressions on their faces -- some eager, some relieved, some happy -- and I know they are heading inside to see people they care about. They aren't afraid. They aren't worried their loved ones won't want to see them. They aren't terrified of facing up to something dark that lives inside them. I envy them their certainty, the freedom they have to follow their feelings, and, for a brief instant in time, I hate them. Me. Yohji Kudou … not Balinese. Yohji the ladies' man. Yohji the lover, standing here, hating people I don't even know.

Crap. I want a fucking drink. I **need** a drink. And a cigarette. My heart hammers against my ribs, telling me to turn around and get the hell out of Dodge. And, I want to. Oh, how I want to.

But, I can't. I have to face this. I owe it to myself. And, more than that, I owe it to Aya. I close my eyes and struggle against my overactive flight instinct. It takes several minutes before I can summon up the courage to move out of the doorway and toward the elevators, but, finally, I manage it.

I'm familiar enough with the hospital to know Aya will be on the third floor. He was unconscious and bleeding a lot when we brought him in, but his injuries weren't life-threatening -- as long as he got quick treatment. So, not hurt enough to be in ICU, but, yet, injured enough that he needed observation. Couple that with his "special patient" status, and you've got the third floor -- where this particular institution houses all its "unusual" cases. I don't know what room he's in, though. Sure, I was along for the ride when we brought him to the hospital, but I left before we knew his room assignment. I wanted to stick around. But, I couldn't face the accusatory looks Omi and Ken kept giving me, so, I wimped out and ditched. Not one of my better moments, I'll admit.

I haven't seen them since. I stopped by the Koneko long enough to grab some stuff, and then headed to this cheap motel I know, a few miles from the flower shop. I can't go back to the Koneko. I can't face Omi and Ken. I'm too ashamed. But, it's more than that. I don't want to go back there. Not if Aya's not there.

The elevator ride up to the third floor is mercifully short, leaving me too little time to chicken out and run away. In an effort to take my mind off the gut-twisting fear threatening to bring me to my knees, I try to decide how I'll get past the nurses' station. I'll have to stop there to find out which room Aya's in, and, in my experience, nurses can be pretty scary about keeping folks out, especially after visiting hours have ended. I'm not feeling chatty or friendly tonight, and I hope I can summon up enough of my patented lady-killer charm to get me past them.

The elevator dings to a stop, releasing me onto the third floor with the quiet whoosh of well-maintained doors. I make my way toward the nurses' station, counting the twenty or so steps in my head as I try to summon up a smidgeon of charm and compose some reasonable-sounding lie to explain why I have to see Aya. Why it's a matter of life and death that I stand in the same room with him, that I see he is whole, that I hear the sound of his breathing and know he is alive. Because it is a life and death thing, but no one except me would understand why. And, I can't explain the real reason. I wouldn't be able to get the words out around the shame and self-hatred chewing their way through my insides right now.

Color me shocked as hell when I don't even have to argue my way onto the floor. One of the nurses on duty recognizes me. I dated her the last time one of us -- Ken, I think -- was in this hospital. She calls out a room number and smiles at me as she waves me down the hall.

I manage to smile my thanks at her, although I have a feeling the expression comes across as more of a grimace than anything else, considering my fractured mental state at the moment. Still, she doesn't seem to mind. I catch a quick glimpse of her eyes as I walk by, and they are wearing that "call me, OK?" expression. I have to admit, I've seen that look before. I love women, but I can't help disappointing most of them. If you want a quick roll or two in the sheets, maybe a dinner out every once in a while, then, yeah. I'm your guy. Most of the women I've met want something more substantial than that. They want someone who will be there for them, no matter what. I'm not that guy. Hell, I can't even be there for myself. So, I end up not calling a lot of them back.

I move beyond the nurse's station and down the hallway, feeling like even more of a failure and a bastard than I did when I came in here. I hadn't thought that was possible, but life's a bitch like that. Each time you think you're at your lowest point, inevitably, you fall further. If I was smart, I would stop thinking things couldn't get worse. But, really, it has nothing to do with being smart or not. I'm human, underneath it all, and I think it's human nature to want to believe you've gone as low as you can. Because that means there's a chance you might get to climb back up again, toward the light. But hey, that's just me, you know? I sure as shit ain't no philosopher.

I pause in front of the second door on the left. Aya's room. I want to go in. I need to go in. I need to see him, for myself. To see he is alive. To know my world will go on spinning around, just like always. So, why do I stand here, in the hallway, smelling the cold, antiseptic smells of the hospital, able to do nothing more than rest my hand against the door's cool wood?

Just open the damn door, Kudou. It's easy. Just open it. Open it and go in. Take your shit like a man. Don't be a fucking pansy. Just do it and get it over with. Then you can slink off and torture yourself in peace for the rest of the night.

The thing is, I'm scared. Really, really scared. Not so much that Aya will hate me, and not so much that things won't be the same between us. My mind has already let go of any notions of our friendship remaining intact. Trying to kill your best friend sort of puts a damper on those touchy-feely relationship kinds of things. So, I already know Aya will be mad at me, that he will hate me, that our friendship is over, and that my world will never be the same -- even if he is all right.

No, I'm scared of me. I'm scared of walking into this room and facing what I did. I'm going to have to look at my own evil handiwork. Well, Balinese's evil handiwork. But, I feel responsible. He lives inside me, after all. I'm the one who let him out tonight. Now, I wish I hadn't. It would've been better to keep the beast caged and get killed by those guards, than to have to face this. Because I'm going to have to look at Balinese. I'm going to have to look him in the eye and face up to who and what he is. There's no escaping it, and that … well, it scares me a whole helluva lot more than anything else right now.

It feels like I stand there for an eternity and more, but, in reality, it can't be more than a minute or two. I keep expecting Balinese to say something. I strain to hear one of his smart-ass remarks or a taunt or insult, uttered in that condescending, silky voice of his. But, Balinese says nothing. For once, I can't even feel him inside me. He has been strangely quiet all evening. Almost like he's closed off to me. Maybe Balinese doesn't want to face this, either.

Nah. No way. That guy -- he could care less. I should know. He lives inside me, after all. He's probably sitting there, somewhere in the dark part of my psyche, feeling smug and satisfied because he kicked Aya's ass and made my life a living hell, all at the same time. I hate that smug prick. I really do.

Screw this shit. What am I going to do? Stand around out here until sunrise? If I wait too long, either Omi or Ken -- or both -- will return. Now, that's drama I don't need right now. I'm doing a fine job of berating and hating myself. I don't need any help from my teammates.

With a sigh of resignation, I push the door open and step into the room. I move quickly, so that I don't give myself the time to think about it. Because, if I spend any more time thinking about what I'm doing, I know I'll weenie out for sure. The path of least resistance -- I figure I live somewhere along that street. Hey, it's not a good character trait, but I never said I was perfect, right?

The room is quiet. None of the beeping machines and monitors that often end up standing next to our sick beds. Let's face it. We have dangerous night jobs. We all like to pretend it's no big deal, but we know, each time we go out there, we're playing for keeps. And, when you work like that, you get hurt -- sometimes a lot. It's inevitable. So, as odd as it seems, the lack of machinery is quite comforting, as it tells me, right away, that Aya is doing okay. Well, as okay as can be expected, considering his best friend tried to kill him.

Yeah. Thanks a lot, mind. So good of you to remind me of that, because I was likely to forget -- NOT.

I sigh and step farther into the room, halfway expecting Omi or Ken to melt out of the shadows in the corner or near the bed to confront me. The price of a guilty conscience, I guess. I know them well enough to know they won't be here. Omi had reports to file, which, considering all the surprises accompanying this particular mission, will take him a few hours. And, Ken will stick with Omi. Not that they don't care about Aya. They do. But, they know he's going to live, and there's still work to be done. That's the way it is in our world. Besides, it works for me. I need to be with Aya, but I don't think they would let me alone if they knew I was here. Not after what they saw tonight. Neither of them said anything. I think they're both trying their best to reserve judgment until either Aya or I can tell them what happened. They don't want to believe it. But, at the same time, they saw what they saw, and there's no denying that. I could tell, after it happened, from the way they looked at me. Not accusing. Not exactly. But, not trusting, either. For the first time, ever, I think, I felt like an outsider with them. I deserved it, but it was one of the worst feelings I've ever had. I don't think I can deal with that right now, along with the hatred and guilt I'm dishing out on my own.

My footsteps echo just a little as I cross the room. It's not a loud noise, but, in the still quiet of the space around me, it seems to bounce off of every hard surface and travel back to me, like a hundred whispers, all spoken at one time. It's an eerie sound, but I do my best to ignore it. I doubt I would have even noticed it if I wasn't so keyed up and terrified of what I would find. But, I am scared, and I can't help thinking how this sound -- the silent padding of my footsteps -- is the loudest thing I've ever heard. I wonder why the nurses or security haven't come in to investigate it. Surely, they can hear it, too. It has to echo all throughout the hospital.

It seems to take a small eternity to travel the several steps from the door to Aya's bedside. But, at last, I reach my destination. I am struck by the odd juxtaposition of feelings tumbling around inside me. I don't want to be here. And, yet, I have to be here. I don't want to see him. And, yet, I need to see him. I'm like that proverbial moth -- struggle away from the flame, go to the flame. And, like the moth, I knew, in the end, I would be here, standing next to Aya's bed, looking down at my best friend, torturing myself with what I did. No matter how much I didn't want to be here, the need to be with him, to stand in the same room as him and know he is alive, was stronger. Just like the moth has to come to the flame, even though it heralds nothing but death.

For the smallest fraction of an instant, I feel relieved when I see him. He looks peaceful in his sleep, with no signs of pain or discomfort. I watch the easy rise and fall of his chest and feel grateful my friend is alive.

It's a good feeling, this relief. Pure and postive. It tastes like warm sunshine on a spring morning.

It doesn't last. Sure, I'm relieved to see Aya, all cleaned up, alive, and feeling no pain. I'm relieved to know, in my heart, he's going to be okay. But, my first glimpse of him also brings back all the rest of it -- the panicked feeling of waking up in the middle of my worst fucking nightmare; the sick, sinking realization that it was real and not a dream; Omi and Ken's angry shouts as they tried to pull me off Aya with their voices, too afraid to move forward and touch me; the feel of crushing Aya's throat under my hand; the smell of his blood on my clothes; the sick, boneless way he slumped to the ground when I finally came to my senses and let go of him. And, the aftermath -- the way I tried to catch him before he hit the ground, only to have Ken shove me out of the way; Ken's hard, accusing glare; and, even worse, Omi's heart-broken, questioning expression.

What else could they think, coming into a room piled, literally, wall-to-wall with dead bodies, only to find me choking Aya to death?

The feelings rush over me -- guilt, fear, despair, anger -- a flood of emotion so strong it threatens to bring me to my knees. I grab hold of the bedrail so that I can remain on my feet. I don't know why it matters. It's not like anyone will see me. I'm the only one in here; the door is closed; and it's not like Aya will ever know. Still, the thought of collapsing on his floor in a tearful, sobbing mess seems obscene, somehow. Maybe because it's so undignified. Maybe because I'm a man and men aren't supposed to do shit like that. I don't know why, but, whatever the reason, the urge to remain strong keeps me clinging to Aya's bedrail, feeling the slick cold of the metal against my sweaty palms, until the backwash of emotions pass enough so that I can bring myself back under control.

I slump into the chair next to Aya's bed. Exhausted, I lean forward to rest my elbows on my knees and cradle my head in my cupped palms. I am shocked when I feel chilly wet against my skin. I hadn't realized I was crying, but, now, I'm not sure if I can stop. I sit there for long minutes, staring at the floor through the spaces between my fingers. I do not make any noise, but I feel the tears slipping through my fingers to fall to the floor.

"Why? Why? Why did you do this?"

In my mind, the question comes out as an anguished scream, but the room around me is as silent as ever.

I wait for the response. For that surly, condescending, silky-sweet voice to mock me or make light of my pain, just like always. This time, he'll have to explain. This time, it's not something we can ignore or pretend never happened. So, I wait. And, wait … holding my breath, my teeth clenched, and my muscles tensed … prepared to face whatever that bastard throws at me.

But, there's nothing. Balinese remains silent, just as he has ever since he attacked Aya. I know he's there. I can feel his presence inside my mind, just on the other side of my psyche. He doesn't prowl his cage now. He doesn't throw himself against the restraints I place on him. He doesn't do anything. I sense he isn't ignoring me. But, he's not entirely present, either.

"Answer me, you bastard! Why? Why did you do this? How could you do this to me?"

The anguish I feel curls around the thoughts, and I wince at how whiney and ineffective the words sound, even to me. I know it'll do nothing but inspire disdain in Balinese. He hates weakness. But, I don't care. Let him mock me. Just so long as I get the answers I need. Just so long as I can figure out why he would turn on someone who means everything to me. Why he would seek to destroy Aya, instead of protecting him.

My words seem to have an effect on him. For the first time since the mission, I feel him stir inside me. His familiar presence -- malignant, callous, dangerous, and dark -- pushes against my psyche, and I hear his voice inside my head.

"**To** you? Don't be an idiot. **For** you. I did it for you. To protect you."

Balinese's voice brushes against my mind, and I have to stifle a shudder. It is soft and silky-smooth, like always, but it lacks the edge of contempt I'm used to from him. If I didn't know better, I'd almost say he was worried. Or sorry. But, that can't be. This is Balinese, after all. He only worries about himself, about preserving his own existence, and he isn't sorry for anything. Ever.

It takes a moment for his words to sink in, but, when they do, I have to choke back the snort of disdain that is my first reaction.

"For me?" I ask, unable to keep the edge of mocking anger out of my thoughts. "You tried to kill him. My teammate. My best friend. One of the few people in this world I give jack about. And, you have the nerve to say you did it for me?"

Balinese is silent.

"Answer me!" my mind shouts at him. "Answer me! How could this be for me? How could you think you have to protect me from him? From Aya?"

"I … I didn't see him," Balinese replies. "I only saw an armed man, coming for your life. For our life. I … I didn't know it was him. I was only tring to keep you safe."

The almost-pleading tone to his voice surprises me. It pushes against my subconscious in a way that feels wrong, compared to the bitter, arrogant tone I'm used to from him. For a moment, I sense the sorrow that moves through his words, but I push the feeling aside, intent on venting my anger.

"That's so much bullshit, and you know it," I tell him. "It's only for you. Always for you. Because you love the killing, the blood, and the death. You're everything I hate, and I want you gone. I want you gone, now."

His contemptuous, mocking snort of laughter only makes me angrier. "Sure you do," he says. "You want me gone -- until the next time something happens that you can't face. Until the next time you're in danger, or up to your ass in something you don't want to see or do or feel. And, then, what happens? You call me -- to do your dirty work. And, when I'm done, you think you can just shove me aside, so you don't have to deal with me. So you don't have to face the truth."

"The truth!" My thoughts reverberate across my mind as I shout back at him. "You wouldn't know the truth if it walked up and bit you on the ass. You're nothing but a killer. A stone-cold, murdering bastard. That's all you are. All you'll ever be. Don't think I don't know. I've felt it -- your joy at being soaked in the blood of your victims, your sense of total abandon over the killing. You make me sick. You refuse even to show your face to me, and, yet, you have the nerve to say you tried to kill Aya for me!"

"I … I didn't," Balinese replies. There is the smallest bit of hesitation to his words, as if he isn't quite sure what the truth is in this situation. After a moment of silence, he continues, his words sullen and defensive, "I wouldn't. I would never hurt Aya. Or Abyssinian. They are too … important to you."

For a few long moments I can't reply. I'm not sure if I am shocked at his words or at the uncharacteristically somber air about him. This is not the Balinese I have come to know and fear. Could it be he has more depth than I believed? No. No, it can't be. He is a killer, pure and simple. That is all he is. All he will ever be. I have felt his urges, his rage, and his joy over a job well-done. I know him. He's trying to throw me off, to lure me into some kind of trap.

"Why would I?" Balinese asks.

The question startles me. For a moment, I struggle to figure out what he means, but he saves me from any strenuous brain gymnastics by asking, "Why would I lure you into a trap? What do I have to gain?"

I'm so used to talking to him as if he is a separate person, I sometimes forget he lives inside me, and that he can hear my thoughts as clearly as if I had spoken them aloud.

"I … I don't know," I reply. "But, it must be something. It's always something with you."

Balinese sighs. It is a sorrowful sound, and the feeling of it shakes me to my core.

"Don't … don't you trust me at all, Yohji?" he asks.

I don't even pause to think about my answer. "No."

"Why? I've never harmed you. I've always protected you," Balinese says. His thoughts sound small and sad.

"How can you ask why?" I reply.

I will not be swayed into feeling sorry for him. I will not. Not after what he did tonight.

"You're a killer," I tell him. "You live for the hunt and the kill, and nothing else. And, tonight, you turned on one of mine. It's the same as turning on me. You might as well have attacked me. You … you couldn't have hurt me any more if you had. You almost killed him. You almost killed Aya."

My thoughts break on a sob, which I barely manage to stifle. I already feel like a total moron for sitting here crying. Not to mention this little conversation I'm having with someone who lives in my head. The last thing I need is to break down like some hysterical, drama-queen schoolgirl. Not that anyone's around to see or hear it, but … well, I would know. I already have too many things to live down. I don't need one more.

Balinese is quiet for a few moments. Then, he mumbles, "I didn't see him. How many times do I fucking have to tell you that?"

"How could you not see him? He was standing right the fuck in front of you!" I shout back.

"Because you weren't there," Balinese replies.

His words strike cold fear into my soul. Even as I begin to deny it, I realize the truth to what he is saying. It is not a good feeling.

"Are you saying this is my fucking fault?" I ask him. My tone is incredulous and challenging, as if I'm daring him to agree with me.

"Not just yours," Balinese replies. "But … yeah. You weren't there. Like always, you were locked away somewhere, curled up in a corner or something. Acting like some kinda weak-ass pussy. How the hell could I see him? Without you, I'm just like you say. A killer, nothing more. You're not weak, Yohji. Why do you do this? Why do you fracture us like this?"

I don't respond. I can't. His words cut through me, like a knife to my heart. I don't want to hear them, and I try to shut them out. But, I can't. Because he is inside of me, inside my head. It would be like trying to drown out my own thoughts.

"It's not that I never show my face to you. You never look. You would rather be Yohji the lover, or Yohji the ladies' man. Yohji the good-natured goof up. You never took the time to look at me," Balinese continues.

In my mind, I am standing, not in Aya's hospital room, but in a dark, cell-like area. The walls and floor are the jewel-like red I've always associated with fresh blood. Bars, from floor to ceiling, close off one end, like a cage. That side of the room is in shadow, but I sense motion behind the bars. I realize I'm facing Balinese's cage, and the figure moving around in the murky darkness comes closer, toward the bars. It leans toward the light, and I realize I'm looking into Balinese's face, Balinese's eyes. No. Not Balinese. My face. My eyes.

My breath catches in my throat, and I want to scream. The shock is too much. I can't take it, and I flee from this room, this darkest, deepest part of my soul.

"You really look like hell, Yohji."

It takes a few seconds for me to realize someone spoke these words out loud. I had been sitting here for so long, talking to Balinese in my own mind, that I assumed this statement also echoed through my thoughts. It takes me a few more seconds to realize Balinese isn't the person speaking.

I look up to see Aya watching me. Somehow, he managed to roll over onto his side without pulling out any of the IVs. His eyes glitter feverishly in the dim light, but his gaze is sharp and penetrating, despite the industrial-strength drugs I know have to be in his system. I wonder how long he has been lying there, watching me. I have this strange feeling that he witnessed my entire internal struggle, but I know, if I ask him, he will deny it.

I smile and pull my chair forward, closer to the bed. Not that I would have disturbed him on purpose -- not for anything in the world -- but I am relieved and happy to see him like this. To see him awake, and to know he is going to be all right.

The metal tips on the chair's legs squeal out as they travel across the hard linoleum floor, and the sound is so grating it sends a shiver down my spine. Once I've repositioned the chair, I lean forward, pillowing my chin on my crossed arms, which I rest along the top rail of Aya's bed. My face is still wet from crying, but I don't bother to wipe away the tears. Somehow, it doesn't seem like all that big of a deal for Aya to see me like this. He's seen me break down enough times. I guess one more won't matter, in the long run.

"Like you're one to talk," I reply.

I struggle to keep my tone light and teasing -- the same conversational tone of voice Aya and I always fall back on, especially when the going gets rough between us. It's stupid, I know, but this is the way we set things right. This is the path to repairing our friendship. We both know it, and we both travel down it willingly.

He doesn't say anything for a few moments. If he could, I have a feeling he would shrug in response to my teasing statement. It's such an Aya-like reaction that I can picture it in my mind.

When he speaks again, I expect some sort of psuedo-mocking comment. I am surprised when he asks, "What are you doing here?"

His words are sincere, and I can hear the edge of worry behind them. I know his question isn't meant as an accusation. But, it hurts, just the same. Guilt is like that. It's a persistent damn emotion. Once it has hold of you, it refuses to let go, and it manages to turn everything, no matter how benign, into shit.

I shake my head, fighting for the things I need to tell him. I want to beg him for mercy, plead with him to forgive me. I want to know if things can still be okay between us, if he will still stand by me, if I will still matter to him. I want to tell him how fucking sorry I am for what Balinese did. I want to tell him how stupidly happy I am that he is all right.

But, as often happens when I have too much to say, the words aren't there. Instead, I manage to choke out, "I … I wanted to see you. To see if you were all right."

It sounds pretty damn lame, even to me. But, all I can do is hope Aya manages to see through it so that he can understand the true meaning behind my words. He knows me better than anyone, and, normally, I know he would understand. But, this isn't exactly a normal situation for either of us.

He smiles -- that crooked ghost of a half-smile I'm so used to seeing. It's such a typical "Aya" expression that it tugs at my heart. For just a fraction of a moment, I forget he is injured, that I almost killed him, and that I'm sitting here next to his hospital bed. And, for that small moment of peace, I love him. Somehow, he understands me better than anyone else. Somehow, he knows what I need. Somehow, even though he's the one physically hurting, he realizes my mental pain is just as great, and he wants to comfort me. And, that counts for a lot. For all of that, I love him. The one irreplaceable person in my life.

It sounds so stupid and sappy, doesn't it? The flower shop fangirls would go nuts if they heard me waxing poetic over Aya. But, it's not like that. Not romantic love, like they want to believe. But, in a way, it's even more. Aya is my friend. My best friend. Sometimes, I think he's my only true friend, and the only person who really knows me. I've lived long enough to realize shit like that is a lot more important and a helluva lot more meaningful than any of that candy hearts and roses crap the shop girls spout.

"I'm all right," Aya says.

His quiet voice pulls me away from my thoughts, bringing my attention back to him.

"I'm all right," he repeats.

"I … I'm sorry, Aya. I'm so fucking sorry," I manage to choke out, around the sudden sob that seems to rise up in my throat from nowhere.

"Nothing to be sorry for. I'm all right," Aya replies.

"I … I almost killed you," I stammer.

"But, you didn't," Aya replies.

I wonder how he can be so calm after what I did, after being betrayed by someone he trusted.

"But, I could have," I say.

"But, you didn't," he counters.

"But, I could have," I repeat.

He sighs -- a tired, almost-resigned sound.

"I don't want to do this," Aya says. "Not right now. I'm too tired and sore. I'm all right. We're all right. Stop beating yourself up over this. It was crazy in there, with all those guards. Could've happened to any of us. To me, even."

"But," I begin to protest, but he cuts me off with a glare. The expression, although fuzzed by the painkillers coursing through his IVs, still manages to pack most of its usual punch.

"But nothing," he says. He closes his eyes and shifts around, so that he is, once again, lying on his back. "I'm trying to sleep, so quit bothering me with your whining. You wanna beat yourself up over something that was an accident, go ahead, but do it quietly. If you're staying, that is."

I can't believe what I'm hearing. I expected anger and recrimination, and, instead, Aya offers me forgiveness and trust. It takes a moment or two for me to find my voice.

"I … I want to stay, but, Omi and Ken …"

"They won't be back," Aya replies to my unspoken question. "I was a total ass. Ran them off. I thought you might come by, and, maybe, you wouldn't want to see them just yet."

His voice trails off at the end of his sentence, so that I have to lean closer to catch the words. Within seconds, he is asleep.

I lean back in the chair, trying to find a comfortable position. I know I'm in for a long, mostly sleepless night. But, I wouldn't want to be anywhere else.

* * *

I pause on the sidewalk, just outside the alley's entrance. It's a beautiful day -- brisk, breezy, with a bit of chill in the air, but, even so, it smells like Spring. Any day now, and the cherry trees will burst into bloom, filling the air with their pink snow. I close my eyes and tilt my head up, toward the sky, so that I can feel the sun's warmth on my face.

I love the way it feels -- golden and pure. This is what happiness would feel like, if you could grab hold of it with your hands. Standing like this, letting the sun's rays caress my face … it's the closest I've ever come to that giddy-happy feeling I used to get around Asuka. Like being warm from the inside. Stupid, huh? Yeah, it is. And, yet, here I stand. Go figure.

It's the middle of the day, and the sidewalk is crowded and noisy. Groups of school kids and office workers heading out for lunch; people shopping for groceries; women with their kids in tow, on their way to some errand or another; people laughing and talking and joking; vendors yelling at the passing crowd, trying to entice buyers into their stores. The sights and sounds seem to flow and merge together into one never-ending cacophany of color and noise. It's enough to make you dizzy. If you're not careful, you can find yourself carried away by all of it, distracted enough that you almost forget who and where you are.

I like being out here in the middle of the day, though. I like feeling the crush of bodies pressing all around me, demanding nothing, but just breathing the same air as me. The crazy whirl of sounds and sights never ceases to amaze me, although I don't feel like I'm a part of it. Maybe that's why it's so easy for me to see how a person could get carried away, lose themselves in a crowd like this. I never do, though -- no matter how badly I want to.

I interrupt the flow of things when I come to a dead stop outside the alley, like a rock tossed into the middle of a moving, living stream. And, like a stream, the people, although jammed up by my sudden stop, eventually flow around me. They grumble and shoot me irritated looks for interrupting the cycle of their day, but they keep right on going, right on flowing toward their destinations. I guess life is like that. It keeps moving on, dragging you along with it. It's a strange sensation, having the crowd flow on around me, after being pushed along by them for so long. It's kind of like stepping off a train into a deserted station. Not a bad feeling, just -- eerie.

The crowd pushes past me. A few people shoulder me aside so they can get by, but I ignore them, just as I ignore the grumbling, muttered insults, and glares directed at me. I'm too busy paying homage to the sun to pay any attention to them. And, when I'm done soaking up the warm, golden glow, every fiber of my being is entranced by the alley in front of me.

It is dark, the kind of murky darkness that tells me, even before I step into it, the air will be damp and cool, especially compared with the warm, golden feeling of the sunlight out here on the sidewalk. As my eyes adjust, shadows take shape, until I can see the garbage cans lining the walls along each side of the alley; trash tumbles out over the sides of most of the receptacles. It blows along the narrow corridor, hugging the walls or scooting from one side to the other, tossed by the breeze, which whips down this tunnel between the two tall buildings on either side, kicking dust and trash before it. A couple of cats scamper in and out of the deeper shadows, chasing after some of the blowing debris. Other than its current feline occupants, the alley is deserted.

I find I can't move. I am frozen here on the sidewalk, staring into the dark recesses, like a rabbit hypnotized by a snake. I want to go in, but I can't. I want to turn around and go home, but I can't. I want to not think about Asuka. I want to not remember her. But, I can't do that, either. So, I stand here, staring down this dark, urban cave, telling myself to stop being such a pansy, to just go in and get it over with, reminding myself there's nothing special about it. It's just an alley, same as a hundred others in this city. But, even as my mind whispers the words, I don't believe it. Because this alley isn't like any other. This is the place where my life changed, where the life I had loved ended … when Asuka died.

I don't know why I ended up here. I mean, sure, it's Wednesday, again -- my own, special version of "hump day" hell. Crap, I fucking hate Wednesdays. Still, I don't often end up over here. This is one of those "must-avoid-at-all-costs" places for me. Somehow, though, my feet just found their way over here today. I figure it must mean something. Maybe I'm supposed to learn something or figure out something or feel something. Hell if I know what, though. I mean, I relive this particular nightmare every day of my life, and I haven't learned a damn thing from it, other than that some hurts don't ever go away. And, standing here, at this moment, I don't feel anything, except empty. Empty to my core.

Crap. I can't keep on standing out here, staring into the empty darkness. For one thing, my back is starting to ache from all the elbows shoved into it as people pass by. But, mainly, it's just freaking pathetic. I hate being indecisive like this. Go in or walk on. Either one. But, here I stand, ineffective, unable to move, one way or the other.

I finally make up my mind and force my feet into motion, toward the alley. As I move from the warm, golden sunlight into the cool, wet dark, I feel my stomach clench. I haven't eaten anything today, and I'm glad. If I had, I'm certain I wouldn't be able to hang on to it right now, and the last place I want to find myself is on my knees, puking in this damn alley.

Not that it would make any difference to the general stench of decay clinging to this place. As I pick a debris-free spot and lean against the building behind me to slide down and sit on the ground, the smells of rotting trash, old brick, wet pavement, and human and animal waste smack me in the face. It's so strong, it's almost like a physical blow, and I recoil from the rank odor. Still, I force myself to stay put. I concentrate on the feeling of cold, wet brick through the thin material of my shirt, and I shiver. I was a little hot out in the sunshine before, but, now, I'm happy I wore a long-sleeved tee. The diversion works. Within a few minutes, I hardly even notice the foul smells.

As I glance out at the sidewalk, I feel my stomach knot up again, and a lump forms in my throat. I try to swallow it down, but, it's no use. This is the same place I sat that night, when I watched those bastards gun Asuka down. When she died trying to save my sorry ass.

In some ways, it seems like it all happened yesterday. The pain is still that fresh, that new, and that sharp. I still think about her all the time. Not a day passes that I don't find something I want to show her, or think about something I want to tell her. I can't even count how many times a day I turn around, expecting her to be there, or I pick up the phone, intending to call her. Each time, when I realize she's gone, that she'll never be there again, I die a little bit more inside. Each time, it's like losing her all over again, this realization that I'll never see her, never hear her voice, never hear her laugh. And, each time, it hurts like holy hell. You'd think it would get easier, but it never seems to. Funny how that shit works, isn't it?

Then, again, it seems like a whole lifetime ago. I guess, in a lot of ways, it was. My old life ended that day. The Yohji Kudou I used to be died. And, that was the day Balinese was born. The day he began to prowl my soul and haunt my nightmares. I guess that's when he was born. Hell, he could've been there all along, deep down inside of me somewhere. But, I can trace every thread in my life back to that moment in time … that day when my whole world turned to shit. So, I think that's when I got Balinese, too. I can't think otherwise. If I did … I'm not sure I could live with it. I'm not sure I even want to.

Funny how my mind immediately slides from thinking of Balinese to thoughts of Aya. I thought I would have spent all my time lost in memories of Asuka, considering my current location, but the mind can be a funny thing, I guess. Sometimes, it seizes upon the one thing you don't want to think about, the one thing you want to spend all your time hiding from -- seeks it out and then dwells on it with a vengeance, until you want to scream. For me, Aya … and what happened on that last mission … is that thing. That thing I want to take back more than anything else, that thing I wish I could pretend had never happened. Well, the most recent one, and the worst. I mean, Asuka … that might have been my fault, because she was trying to save me … but it wasn't my doing. But, Aya … what happened to him was different. I did that. I tried to kill him. Balinese and me. Hell, I guess I've got a lot of shit to be sorry for. Still, the thing with Aya is way at the top of the list. Always will be.

It's one week, to the day, since I tried to kill him. I haven't seen him since that first night in the hospital. I stayed all night, but left before visiting hours the next day -- before Omi and Ken got there. I knew Aya wouldn't be able to put them off for very long, not considering Omi's mother-hen tendencies, and I didn't feel like I could face them. I knew they would want an explanation. Hell, they deserved an explanation. But, I didn't have one. I still don't. How the hell can I explain it to them when I don't even know why all of this happened?

And, I guess part of it was that I couldn't face Aya, either. I know he was okay with what happened. I don't know how he was okay with it, but, somehow, he was. Somehow, he understood, and he didn't hold it against me. He said we were okay, too. But, I'm not sure I was okay. I'm still not sure. It doesn't make a whole hell of a lot of sense, even to me, but … I … I don't know. I guess, until I worked through some things for myself, I didn't want to be around Aya. No. Not that I didn't want to. I couldn't. I wanted to be there, but it was almost like I felt I didn't deserve to be there.

But, I've been wandering around the city for the past week, looking for answers, trying to figure things out, and I've got shit to show for it. Nothing's changed. I still don't understand what happened in that warehouse. I don't know why it happened. And, I'm still scared shitless it'll happen again. What if Balinese goes nuts again? What if Aya's not so lucky next time? Or, what if Balinese turns on Omi or Ken?

I bring my knees up, resting my arms across them and my head against my arms. I stare at the ground as I try to work through all the conflicting feelings and thoughts hammering away inside my head. For once, I almost wish Balinese was here. Maybe he could help me make sense of all this shit. But, I haven't heard from him since that night at the hospital. I haven't felt him, either. Maybe he's gone. I don't know. You'd think that would make me happy, all things considered, but it doesn't. It just makes me feel empty inside, like I'm no longer whole. I don't want to say I miss him -- not exactly -- but it's a lot like the hollow feeling you get when you miss someone.

For the briefest moment, my mind jogs back to that moment, in Aya's hospital room, when I looked into Balinese's face and realized it was like looking into a mirror. I shudder with the shock of it, and my brain shrinks away from the memory. It's too much. Too painful. I have this feeling that I need to go there, that I need to accept some things about Balinese and myself. But, at the same time, I'm not sure I'm strong enough.

'_Why do you fracture us?'_

That's what Balinese asked me. And, I didn't have an answer for him. I still don't. But, now, as I remember the shock of looking into his eyes and seeing my own, his words ring through my heart with the weight of truth to them. We are not two separate people, inhabiting one body by some random, freakish turn of events. We are two sides of one person. I know it. And, yet, I can't bring myself to accept this, even though it's staring me in the face. Why? Why can't I acknowledge the truth behind these shadows that live inside me? Because that means I would have to take responsibility for everything I've done? Because I'm not strong enough to do that? Because I'm used to being scared of Balinese, and acknowledging the truth means I have to start being scared of myself, too?

Crap. I'm sick of thinking about all this shit. There's no end to it, and it's making me nuts, going around in circles like this. What I really want is to not think about any of it, but my mind doesn't seem willing to comply with that request. Each time I think I've pushed all this stuff away, my mind manages to dredge up something else to chew and worry over.

There is a small scraping noise to my left, near the alley's entrance. It sounds so much like shoe leather rubbing against concrete that I look up, halfway expecting to see the cats playing in one of the garbage cans, or a rat, scurrying from one shadow to another.

Color me shocked as all hell to see Aya standing there.

At first, I think he's a figment of my imagination, born of all the heavy duty guilt trips I've been giving myself over what happened in that warehouse a week ago. There's no reason for him to be here, and I didn't think the others knew where Asuka died. I mean, they all know about her dying … I just didn't think they knew any of the details. He's the last person I would expect to see here, and yet, when I think about it, I find I'm not that surprised at his unexpected appearance. On some level, it seems right, like he should have been here all along. He is silhouetted by the afternoon sun, and I shade my eyes so I can see him better. I expect him to disappear, like the figment I think he is, but he doesn't.

"Hey," he says.

I nod at him and reply, "Hey."

He seems to take my response as permission to come into the alley, and I watch while he moves forward, passing, as I did, from the golden light on the sidewalk into the chilly, damp gloom. He moves slowly, carrying his body with a sort of pained brittleness that makes my heart clench. He would never draw attention to it, but I can tell he's still sore as hell. Despite the pleasant afternoon temperature, he wears a light jacket. The right side of it drapes over his shoulder, with the sleeve swinging free because his right arm is in a sling. The sight of it fills me with guilt, as does the glimpse of the finger-shaped, purple-green bruises on his neck, which I see as he moves closer to me.

He stands next to me for a long few moments, eyeing the dirty patch of pavement beside me with this odd, uncertain expression, caught somewhere between exhaustion and disdain. I can tell he's tired and wants to sit down, but, at the same time, he wishes I had picked a cleaner place for our impromptu rendezvous. Well, I can't help him there. The alley is trashed, and it's not like I forced him to come out here. I was just fine, sitting here feeling like crap all by my lonesome, thank you very much.

Even as I think them, the uncharitable thoughts curdle in my gut. I know he's only out here because he's worried about me. He is pale and sweating, breathing harder than he should be, and I can tell he is hurting, although he would never say so. I'm sure he'll make light of it, but I also know he's probably been out all morning, looking for me, traipsing from one corner of the city to another, visiting all the places where he thinks I might go, even though he's not in any condition to do so. He should be home, in bed, not out looking for his no-good friend who tried to kill him. Stupid, stubborn bastard. Sure, the words are harsh, but, all the same, they're tinged with genuine affection. It makes me happy that he cares. Makes me feel lucky that I still matter that much to him, even though I shouldn't -- not after what I did.

After a bit of internal debate, exhaustion wins out, and Aya sinks to the ground, leaning against the wall behind us and using his left arm for leverage to control his descent. He grimaces at the alley's decaying, putrid smell and glances around at the trash and debris littering the ground.

"Nice place," Aya comments. His voice shakes a little, from the effort he makes to keep his tone light, teasing, and half-mocking.

"Yeah, well, 'ya know … it's not the Ritz or anything, but … it's home," I reply, matching his carefully-orchestrated, teasing tone of voice.

He laughs, the smallest, barest snort of laughter, hardly more than a puff of air through his nostrils. But, it makes me smile, just the same.

"What're you doing here?" I ask him, almost immediately following the query with, "When did you get out, anyhow?"

He sighs and leans his head back against the dirty brick wall behind us, closing his eyes. Now that he's sitting this close to me, I can see the fine pain lines drawn around his eyes and mouth. He looks so much older than what he is, and I realize he feels a lot worse than I had guessed, from my first glance at him.

"This morning," he replies, choosing to ignore my first question and answer the second. "I told them I was leaving, no matter what. I was sick of being in there. So, the doctors agreed and discharged me."

I give him my best "You're shittin' me" eyebrows-raised expression of sheer disbelief, although the effort is wasted, since he still has his eyes closed. No one but Aya would be stubborn enough to bully his way into a doctor-sanctioned discharge from the hospital, and then have enough gall to turn around and say it was because they agreed with his point of view. But, I have no doubt Aya believes this is what happened. Let's just say he sees the world in a certain, special way and leave it at that.

"Well, congrats on finishing medical school," I comment, making sure he doesn't miss the sarcastic, mocking tone in my voice.

No matter how glad I am to see him, he should still be in the hospital, or at home in bed, resting, not wandering all over town looking for my sorry ass. Not that I'm not grateful. I am. But, I can't help but give him a little grief over not looking out for himself a bit better.

He rewards my sarcasm with another small snort of laughter and a muttered, "Asshole."

I smile and lean my head back against the wall, closing my eyes in imitation of Aya's relaxed pose, and reply, "Prick."

And, it's good to be sitting here with him. It's normal and relaxed, with none of the recriminations, guilt, or anger I had feared hanging between us. It's like any normal day. Just like nothing happened. I have no idea how Aya can do that -- how he can sit next to the man who tried to kill him, just a week ago, and act like nothing ever happened, how he can act like I'm the same Yohji … his friend and not some kind of monster. For the first time since the warehouse, my mind doesn't drag up guilt or fear or grief. For the first time in a week, I get my wish. I can turn my mind off and think of nothing. I want it to last forever, but, at the same time, I know it can't. I want to sit like this with him -- just two guys in an alley, no big deal -- for the rest of time, just to hear his calm, even breathing, to feel his presence next to me, and to know, for the first time in a while, that everything is all right. I want to, but, at the same time, I know I can't. The twisting feeling working through my stomach tells me there are still things to work out, there are things I need to say. So, even though I don't want to, I break the easy, comfortable silence between us.

"What're you doing here?" I ask.

He doesn't reply right away. After a few long moments, I begin to think he isn't going to answer me, so I am surprised when his baritone voice rumbles into existence next to me.

"I … thought you might be here," Aya says.

His voice is gravelly and hoarse, and he sounds tired, worn-out. He hesitates, as if searching for just the right words, and I can hear the edge of worry in his voice. It's almost masked by the exhaustion, but it's there. I can't help but feel a little guilty about it. I know Aya doesn't do anything he doesn't want to, and he would insist that he is responsible for his own actions. I know, if I said anything, he would tell me I'm being a fool, and that I have nothing to feel guilty over. And, yet … the guilt is there. I can't help it. Sure, he might have wanted to find me. But, I was the one who took a powder on everyone. If not for that, my sick, hurting friend would be at home, in bed, where he belongs, instead of wandering around the city. Hell, if Balinese hadn't attacked him in the warehouse, he wouldn't be sick and hurting, in the first place. I figure I have more than a small load of guilt to carry off of all this, no matter what Aya says.

"I was … worried. About you. Omi said you didn't come home, that you hadn't been home since … you know, that night," Aya continues.

I'm not sure what to say. I know Aya worries, and that he cares about all of us. But, hearing him say it out loud like this … Well, it's not his way. I know him, probably better than anyone, and it surprises even me to hear him just come out and say it like this. He must have been carrying a lot of worry over this situation if he's reduced to sharing his fears out loud. Either that, or he feels a whole heck of a lot worse than he looks, so that he's not able to keep up the normal, teasing façade the two of us use. I open my eyes long enough to steal another worried, side-long glance at his profile. Maybe a bit of both -- worry and pain -- combining to make him a lot more forthcoming than normal.

He doesn't look at me. He never opens his eyes or changes position. He just remains, leaning against the wall, eyes closed, as if he doesn't have a care in the world. Only the slight tension I can read in his shoulders and the concern edging his voice give him away, and I know he is listening, very hard, as if everything in his world hinges on what I say next. Hell, maybe it does. Maybe everything in my world does, too.

I sigh and close my eyes again, searching for the right words to explain the unexplainable to him, for a way to tell him about emotions I don't understand, about fears I can't face.

"I didn't want to. Go home. Not while you weren't there. I don't know. It … it just didn't feel right," I tell him.

I don't know what words I was looking for, but, as these sentences tumble out of my mouth, I know I've fallen short. It's the truth, so that should count for something. But, even so, it doesn't explain anything. Not to me, and sure as hell not to Aya. There's no way he could understand all of the guilt, fear, and pain I feel, not from these few, lame sentences. But, somehow, my explanation seems to satisfy him. He doesn't say anything, not at first, but I can feel the tension drain off of him. It's as if the air around us becomes lighter, more breatheable. And, for some reason, that makes me feel better, too.

"Oh," he says, after a short pause. "That's it? I thought … Well, never mind."

I think about his answer for a moment or two. It's not at all what I expected him to say. I mean, I don't really know what I expected him to say, but that definitely wasn't it. I start to let it go, but, then, I decide I need to know.

"You thought what?" I ask, although I expect he will ignore the question.

He doesn't. I guess this is my day for surprises. Or, maybe I don't know Aya as well as I thought I did. Hell, I'm beginning to think I don't know myself as well as I thought I did.

"That, maybe, you weren't coming back. Or something," Aya says.

His voice is low, and I have to strain to catch the words. If I didn't know better, I'd almost think he was embarrassed.

I laugh, a short, hard, ironic-sounding chuckle, and reply, "Uh, well, the thought did cross my mind. I'm not sure Omi and Ken will exactly welcome me home with open arms or anything. Not after what they saw at that warehouse."

Aya smirks. It's a definite, "Eh, what should they care?" expression. I guess he figures they shouldn't worry about it. If we're okay with it, then they should be, too. Yeah, right. In a perfect life. I have mentioned that special way in which Aya sees the world around him, right? Well, this would be one of those times when I want to slug him for being so stubbornly dense.

"It matters," I tell him. "You know it does. How can they ever look at me the same way again? After walking into that room, and seeing me … watching me …"

I sigh and shake my head, giving vent to my frustration in the only way I know how, short of tearing my hair out by the roots. I can't finish my statement. Sure, it's been a week since it all happened, but I still can't even think about the whole thing without feeling sick and wanting to crawl into a hole and hide. I don't think the passage of any amount of time is going to change that.

Aya doesn't say anything at first. He just sits there, almost like he's waiting for me to finish talking, except I would swear he knew I was done. Maybe he's trying to figure out what to say to make everything all right for me. I almost wish that was the case, even though I know it's not possible. Nothing could make this all right. Nothing. It seems like he sits there for a long time, but I know it can't be more than a couple of minutes. Even so, I begin to feel uncomfortable with the silence, and, then, I wonder if he's fallen asleep.

Just as I am about to lean forward and check on him, he asks, "So, you're avoiding Omi and Ken? Or … are you hiding from something a little closer to home?"

I feel my heartbeat start to race and my breathing quickens, but I struggle to keep my voice calm as I reply, "I don't know what you mean."

Aya sighs. "Come on, Yohji. Cut the crap. You know what I mean. Is it really Omi and Ken you can't stand seeing, or are you hiding from yourself?"

I lean forward and glance over at him, and I am surprised to find him watching me. He has this look in his eyes that I can't quite place. It's angry and hard, almost feral enough to make my blood run cold, and, yet, there is an edge of concern there, too. I can't help but have the strange feeling that both Aya and Abyssinian are staring at me. It is an uncomfortable sensation. I shake my head and look away, no longer able to meet that direct, demanding gaze, unable to answer the question he asked. It makes me feel like some kind of pansy-assed wuss, but I'm not strong enough. Maybe Aya is, but I'm not . I'm not strong enough to go there … to answer the question he asked … to speak the words out loud. Because, if I say it out loud, it'll really be true, and I'm not sure I can handle that.

Aya sighs and shakes his head as he leans back against the brick wall and stares up at the patch of blue sky visible right above us. I can see him out of the corner of my eye.

"It's crap, Yotan," Aya says, after staring at the sky for a while. The seldom-used nickname softens the blow of his harsh words. "You can't hide from yourself, and you know it. Doesn't matter where you go, you'll always be there."

I know he's right, but it just makes me want to deny it that much more. Sometimes, I'm twisted that way.

"I'm not. I'm not hiding from myself. I'm hiding from him. Balinese," I mutter.

I feel the flush of heat across my face and know that I am blushing, ashamed of how stupid my response sounds. I know I sound like a petulant three-year-old, but I don't care. Guess I feel kind of like a petulant three-year-old, too.

"You know better than that," Aya says.

His voice is quiet, and, although I don't look up, I can feel him watching me. I don't know what to say. He's right. We both know it. But, I can't bring myself to say the words. I don't want to accept what I already know is the truth. So, I don't say anything. I stare at the cracked pavement between my feet, unable to meet his gaze.

"I told you already … things are all right. We're all right. And, I mean that. I know you know I mean it, and I think you believe me. But, you're still doing this to yourself. You're still torturing yourself, still running away. You can't spend your life running like this," Aya continues, when I say nothing. "You can't break yourself in two like this. You can't live like that. None of us can."

His words make my breath catch in my throat, they are so similar to what Balinese said to me that night in the hospital. I can still hear his voice, ringing in my ears: _Why do you fracture us?_

All of a sudden, I'm not sitting in the alley today. I'm back in my mind, a week ago, staring into Balinese's face, into his eyes, and seeing … myself. It still scares the hell out of me, even now, even after not hearing squat from Balinese all week long. It's as if the air around me dropped about twenty degrees, but I know I'm cold from the inside out, chilled by that memory. I shiver and pull my legs closer, wrapping my arms around them for warmth.

Aya doesn't seem to notice, or, if he does, he's kind enough to ignore it.

"It could've happened to anyone, Yohji. In that room, in the heat of the moment, with all those people out for your blood. Could've happened to anyone," Aya finishes.

I stifle a snort of disbelief at his words. I don't want to be mean, and I don't mean to denigrate what he says. I know how hard it is for him. He cares a lot, but he's not an open person, and it is an effort for him to talk like this. It was hard for him to find me, considering he had to walk all over the city when I'm sure all he wanted to do was curl up in bed and sleep his aches and pains away. It's hard for him to care, even. I know how much emotional pain he carries around when he can't save someone, especially if that someone is one of us, and he can't keep us from going off the deep end. I know that pain because I have my fair share of it, too. I know all of this, and I want to believe what he is telling me. I want to believe it could have happened to anyone. But, in my heart, I can't.

Aya is the most organized, most tightly-wound bad ass I know. Except for a couple of "Takatori fits" early on in our association, he has always been calm, always cool, and always collected. He is never out of control. I guess you could call him the perfect killer, if you didn't know him and didn't know the emotional trauma this life inflicts on him. And even during his most spectacular Takatori moments, he was never out of control enough that any of us had to fear him. He could never turn on us. It could never happen to him, and, knowing that, how could I believe what he tells me?

"Not to you," I reply. My tone is sullen and defensive, and the sound of it makes me wince.

"It could," Aya says, his voice calm.

"Yeah, right," I mutter. The words ride out of my mouth on a snort, sounding a lot more sarcastic than I would have liked.

Aya clears his throat. For a second or two, I can feel the anticipation in the air -- heavy and tense -- and it scares me. Somehow, I know Aya is about to share something he has never told another living soul, something that will change the way I look at him, that will change the dynamic between us. I don't know if it will change things for the better or for the worse. I'm not sure I want to find out, either. I like things the way they are. I have the sudden urge to cover my ears so that I can't hear him, like a small child. I know it's stupid, but the urge is so strong, I have to fight it down to keep from doing it.

"It has," Aya says.

His voice is small and quiet. He sounds scared and lost, like he's wandered away to some dark place inside himself, and he doesn't quite know how to find his way back. It scares me, just as I knew it would, and I don't want him to go on. I want him to shut up, to come back to the here and now, to be "Aya" … the Aya I know, who is never lost, never scared, never unsure. Or, maybe he is and he just hides it. I don't want to think about that right now. I just want him to be … normal, even though I know he is doing this for me. He is reliving one of the worst moments of his life, just so I will know I am not alone, just so I will understand I can survive this.

I start to say something. I don't know what, exactly -- just anything to make him stop. But, he shakes his head at me, silencing my protest before the words can leave my mouth.

Instead, like a moth drawn to a flame, I hear myself asking, "With us? Weiss? A mission I wasn't on?"

He shakes his head. "No. Before. When I was solo. I … I almost killed a child."

I realize I am staring at him, with my mouth hanging open. He isn't looking at me. He is staring into space, seeing painful memories visible only to him. But, I see the pink-tinged flush that colors his cheeks, and I know he feels me watching him. I know it embarrasses him. I want to stop, but I can't look away. I am stuck in this moment, trapped by his voice, stuck on this runaway train and unable to get off.

"And, how … how did you get over it?" I ask. "How did you learn to live with it?" My voice is hoarse, and I can hear the tension that wraps around my words. As if my life depends on it, because it does.

He looks at me, and the sorrow and pain I see in his eyes strikes me to the core of my being. I want to recoil from him, from his emotions, which mirror the turmoil my own soul is in, but I also want to stay near him, to hug him to me and tell him everything is all right. The conflicting urges war within me for several moments. In the end, I can't decide which one to follow, so I do nothing. I just sit and stare. It is inadequate, and, maybe, cowardly, but it's all I can do at the moment.

"I … I don't know," he says, after a few long moments. He looks away and shrugs, a clumsy, one-shouldered gesture that deepens the pain lines around his mouth and eyes. "I'm not sure I ever really did. I … went a little crazy for a while. I don't really remember all of it, but, at the end, I realized I can't live my life in two parts. I wanted to separate the part of me that is Abyssinian, from the part of me that is Ran, and I couldn't. It left Abyssinian with no remorse, no soul, no mercy. Maybe that's how Aya was born, because I had to be one person again."

He pauses again, but I continue to watch him, tensed and listening, hoping for an answer to my problem. I am saddened that my friend has had to go through the same pain and emotional torture I've been living with for the past week. But, at the same time, I'm almost stupidly overjoyed I'm not alone. Aya has been there, and he lived through it. Maybe, maybe I can, too.

He seems to sense the question that burns through every fiber of my being. He shakes his head and says, "There's no answer, Yohji. You just have to … live through it. I don't know how, but I know you can."

It's not the answer I want. I know, sometimes, there are no answers, especially when you really need one, but, still, I feel the despair building up inside me. It threatens to choke me, and I don't know how I will be able to live through this. I don't know how I will be able to come to terms with who I am, with who Balinese is. I'm not as strong as Aya.

"What … what am I supposed to do, then?" I choke out. I try my best to bite back the sob that manages to work its way up through my throat. I am surprised to find my cheeks are wet. I hadn't realized I was crying, but, now, I feel I can't stop.

Aya sighs. He pushes himself to his feet, using his left arm as leverage. Once he is standing, he looks down at me and smiles, holding out his left hand, like a lifeline thrown to a drowning man.

"You put one foot in front of the other. You live one moment at a time, until you can do more. You come with me so I can buy you that drink I promised, and, then, you come home," Aya says.

I take his hand and use it to pull myself to my feet without putting too much strain on Aya's already-hurting body. I shove my sunglasses out of the way to swipe at the tears on my cheeks and in my eyes, and I manage to smile back at him.

"Sounds like a plan to me," I say. I shrug, struggling to appear nonchalant, to bring my voice back to that light, teasing tone that is so important to the healing process between us.

Aya nods, satisfied, and turns to head toward the alley's mouth and the sun-drenched sidewalk beyond.

I stuff my hands in my pockets and slouch my shoulders as I walk toward the alley's entrance.

"Not a very good plan," I mutter, "but a plan, nonetheless."

He pauses, just before he steps onto the sidewalk, standing halfway in the light and halfway in the alley's murky darkness. He shakes his head, a gesture that tells me just how hopeless he thinks I am. But, I can see the slight smile that curves his lips, the teasing expression in his eyes.

"Ungrateful bastard," he says, and then ducks out of the alley and onto the sidewalk.

I smile in response. "Whatever," I reply, with a shrug, as I follow Aya out of the dark alley and into the light of day. A drink sounds pretty damn good right about now. It is Wednesday, after all.


End file.
